


Noble Beast

by ryukoishida



Series: Arslan Senki Fall Festival 2016 [3]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: Jimsa is hungry, and Zaravant indulges him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse. Also it’s my first time writing JimZara so I’m excited! It’s set during the 3 years of peace between the first and second arc of the story. Also, does anyone remember if they call each other with some kind of title? Like Lord or whatever?

“I’m hungry, Zaravant.”

It’s said in the most nonchalant and bored tone that Jimsa can manage, which is to say, the tone that he uses with the Parsian knight almost all the time.

“I offered you dinner when you came in,” the man reminds him with a visible frown, his concentration entirely focused on the parchment lying flat on the low table as he scratches another marking with his feather pen.

“You know well that I hate those slimy creatures from the sea,” Jimsa wrinkles his nose in disgust at the mention of those strange animals with slippery, scaly skin and eerily big black eyes that stare back up at him from a plate. “They have no legs!”

“They’re called ‘fish’,” Zaravant mumbles, but his brows relaxed and an amused grin is starting to grow along his lips.

“That is not even the point,” the Turanian general, who has been serving under King Arslan for more than two years now, slaps a hand on the table, which effectively tears Zaravant’s attention away from the document he’s attempting to work on. He lifts his head to finally look at Jimsa properly for the first time that night, an eyebrow arched up in question when the other man leans in a degree closer on his knees, his eyes glimmering reddish-brown under the orange light of the torches. 

“Then what is it that you want, Jimsa?” 

Zaravant finds that the best approach when it comes to the Turanian general is to be as direct as possible.

For the past few years, Zaravant has learned a lot about the man whom he at first had bored nothing but hatred and desire for vengeance towards since the Turanian general had severely injured him with his blow-darts during one of the battles between Arslan’s faction and the Turanian warriors who were foolish enough to think they could take down the fortress of Peshawar. 

But that enmity was resolved when they decided to cooperate in order to escape Peshawar together; Zaravant was driven by his loyalty to Prince Arslan, who’d been banished by King Andragoras at the time, and Jimsa was driven by his instinct to survive since Andragoras had announced him to be the human sacrifice at the eve of their battle to retake Ecbatana, but he was also pulled by the curious kindness of the Parsian prince, who had saved him without seeming to expect anything in return. 

Their journey had been full of bickering, certainly, but Zaravant figures that that’s probably the best way to communicate with each other, the best way to know what the Turanian man is like beneath that boyish face, blunt attitude, and awkward Parsian tongue that makes him sound ruder than he intends. 

For the past two years, they had been assigned to work together on a few rare occasions, though after Arslan has recaptured the capital, Zaravant’s duties have mostly been focusing on rebuilding Ecbatana’s infrastructure and reinstalling the underground canals that have been destroyed by Bodin while the capital was occupied by the Lusitanians. The process of restoring the waterways is long and grueling, and requires lots of onsite inspections, measurements, and planning in order for the actual construction to take place. 

Glad to finally have the knight’s attention on him, Jimsa hooks a finger under Zaravant’s chin so that he has nowhere else to look but straight at him. There’s a ravenous gleam to his eyes and a hint of blush along his cheekbones when he utters the next words, voice dipped low though his tenor remains even, but the meaning cannot be any more obvious, “I’m hungry for something else…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘horny’,” Zaravant doesn’t flinch away from his touch, the warmth from the tip of the other man’s finger an invitation for him to lean in even closer until their breaths mingle and blur the boundary between them, “you’re not hungry; you’re horny.”

A boundary that has been crossed and invaded numerous times but has never been addressed by either of them.

“Same difference,” Jimsa murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he closes the distance between them with a kiss to the mouth, brash and blunt like the way he speaks, fierce and fearless like the way he fights. It’s unrefined, but something in the genuine manner with which he puts his entire being into that one single kiss has Zaravant automatically winds his arms around the slighter warrior and pulls him closer until Jimsa is straddling his lap, the document on the desk all but forgotten.

Jimsa may not be the most fluent or talented speaker, but his kisses certainly make up for his awkward turns of phrases for there is nothing clumsy or inelegant in the way his head tilts to the side to make their kiss a little deeper and more intimate, or the soft, eager noises from the back of his throat that shows Zaravant just how much he wants to devour him.

“You have no sense of shame when it comes to things like this, huh?” Zaravant lets out a shaky exhale when Jimsa bites a particularly sensitive spot on his neck before he wanders lower, hot, open-mouthed kisses setting a trail of flames along his skin until he reaches the opening of his tunic. 

The first time this happened, both of them had been quite tipsy from drinking one too many goblets of spirits, but Zaravant was still relatively sober – enough to know what he should or shouldn’t do with a fellow comrade. Jimsa had been the one to initiate the kiss back then, too; it was always him, and Zaravant never had the strength or the willpower to refuse, always kissed him back, perhaps with a little more fervor than he thought he was capable of.

For as many times as it has occurred, Zaravant has wondered if their relationship would have any significant changes, but it has been almost a year now since they’ve started this – whatever this is meant to be – and nothing between them has changed. 

The Parsian knight runs his fingers through Jimsa’s ink-black hair when the Turanian general decides to make good on his objective. He lowers his torso close to the ground – his back arched in such an enticing way that Zaravant has to force his hand to stay put – so that his head is practically lying in Zaravant’s lap, his fingers quickly untying the cloth bound around the knight’s waist. 

“Why should I feel ashamed for pursuing after something I desire?” Jimsa asks in his usual detached tone, like he isn’t desperately trying to pull Zaravant’s trousers off to get his mouth closer to the prize. “Money, glory, sex, love – it’s all very simple to us; we take what we want as long as it does not violate our code of honor as warriors.”

“So engaging in casual sexual intercourse is an honorable deed then, is it?” There is a sharp and bitter taste on his tongue when Zaravant lets the words roll out from him, and perhaps there’s a part of him that wants some kind of answer, a term that sums up what they were and what they are now. 

Jimsa pauses, teeth snagging his reddened lower lip as his eyes, irises blown dark from arousal, stare unabashedly into Zaravant’s.

“Do you not want this?” he asks, tilting his head to the side as if the question has never occurred to him before. 

The funny thing is, Zaravant thinks, it probably hasn’t, because that’s just the kind of man Jimsa is. He’s not one to force himself on an unwilling partner, the Parsian knight knows that, so it’s not that Jimsa has a cruel and impetuous streak when it comes to matters of sex. And somehow, the genuine cluelessness is almost endearing.

“That’s not what I mean,” Zaravant says with a resigned sigh before a reluctant smile returns to his lips. “I do –– I want this.” The ‘you’ in the end is unsaid, silent. 

It shouldn’t be this hard to admit to his own desires, but his cheeks are stained with uncomfortable heat, and it’s starting to spread down his neck where Jimsa has left marks of his kisses.

“Then can I continue?” Jimsa looks a little lost at the interruption, brows dipped into a slight frown. 

Zaravant cradles the side of Jimsa’s face, a thumb tracing gently along his jawline, and the soothing gesture slowly eases the scowl on the Turanian man’s face. 

“Yes,” he says. 

It’s simple, and maybe he shouldn’t make it any more complicated than that.

Jimsa shifts his attention back to the matter at hand, and he’s delighted to find that despite Zaravant’s strange question from earlier, his lower body at least appears to be excited about their physical entanglement. 

There’s no hesitation – there’s never a moment of uncertainty in him, it seems – when Jimsa dives in to swallow him whole. 

Zaravant gives up on trying to remain quiet and starts to let out small whimpers when the other man begins to suck earnestly, his mouth unbelievably hot and tight and the noises he makes when he pulls away from the knight’s flushed and dripping cock so that he can lick from the base to the tip of his hardened length is absolutely sinful. 

Where his mouth cannot reach, Jimsa uses his hand, changing the pressure and pace according to Zaravant’s reactions; he quickens the strokes when he feels that the Parsian knight is not making enough desperate, little noises, and his suction becomes too soft too gentle when he notices that Zaravant is close.

“Jim…sa…” Zaravant gasps out his name in a wrecked whine when the Turanian general once again backs away before he can climax. His skin is crawling with heat and lightning, his tunic is still hanging open with his chest exposed, which Jimsa occasionally takes advantage of by dragging his nails down the taut muscles there, and sparks skitter along his spine whenever Jimsa’s fingers skim over a particularly sensitive spot. “E-enough teasing already…”

“’m not teasing,” Jimsa murmurs, his hand still maintaining the even strokes while he blinks up at him with innocent eyes, and Zaravant moans internally at the sight because he shouldn’t be this aroused by those darkened irises blazing with palpable yearning, the beautiful flush on his cheeks, and those spit-shine lips that look so terribly kissable. “I just want you to want this as much as I want you. Is that… not good? Is that...”

His brows are drawn together into a frown again as he tries to find the correct word, “Is that dishonorable?” 

“No, no… this is good,” Zaravant quickly reassures him, tenderly tucking a piece of hair behind Jimsa’s ear, and he looks distracted for that one moment at the unfamiliar gesture. 

The expression is one that Zaravant has never seen on the Turanian general before – a hint of bashfulness when he turns his head to the side, teeth worrying his lower lip, as if he’s not quite used to the intimacy of Zaravant’s gentle touches – and it makes his heart ache in a strange yet pleasing way. There are words, full of too much suppressed emotions, about to spill from the depth of his heart, but then Jimsa is kissing him on the mouth again, brutal and unforgiving, swallowing anything and everything Zaravant is about to say, stirring up a storm, making him forget – words unsaid, left untouched – and Jimsa’s hand is still caressing him unceasingly until Zaravant is groaning his name and cursing the gods.

The syllables are muffled against Jimsa’s lips, hot and frantic, and Zaravant climaxes within Jimsa’s embrace, his name hanging in the air between their shared breaths, imperfect fragments that threaten to slice skin. 

The candles in the chamber are burning low, and silence dominates the room for a short while. 

Zaravant is still slightly breathless, sweat dotting his skin as he sluggishly untangles himself from the other man. He shrugs off his tunic and then reaches over with one arm; the knight half-expects him to flinch away from his touch, but Jimsa merely looks at him with curious rufous eyes, intrigued by Zaravant’s movement. 

He grins, picking up a stray lock of Jimsa’s hair and idly playing with it, but there’s a knowing light in his eyes. 

“Still hungry for more?” a touch of playfulness is laced within Zaravant’s tone.

Jimsa takes one thoughtful look at him, the red in his eyes flares bright and wanting like a beast. 

“That was just the appetizer after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ohmygod that killed me. I sorta feel like Jimsa might be a bit ooc but ok hear me out: Jimsa is a very blunt sort of dude, right? So I imagine he just approaches everything in life that way. He wants attention from Zaravant? He’s just go for it without any fancy, flowery rhetorics. I tried to write Zaravant as an earnest guy who gets embarrassed very easily by Jimsa’s antics.


End file.
